Witness Protection
by I-need-asprin
Summary: Greg's got enough on his plate without a drug-crazed adolescent whose not exactly enjoying small portions himself. With a failing marriage and a faltering career, a questionable relationship and stalker is really the last thing he needs. Sherlock/Lestrade. M in later chapters.
1. Meeting One: Gossip

**Notes:**

**My first story of this pairing so I'm kind of playing with it. Please be gentle with me.**

**I have a Vague idea of the direction this will go... Vague... But if you have anything you'd like to see, just ask and I'm sure I can fit it in somewhere :)**

**The next chapter *should* be longer (and with an actual plot, hopefully), but if not, feel free to swing punches.**

**Enjoy x**

He needs air, and a lot of it. Quickly. He buttons closed his coat with unneeded force, and almost gets angry at the white smoke of his breath that can disappear into thin air, but he can't.

He feels the stamp of his soles on tarmac as he jogs to the one place where it's dark, solitary and more importantly, solitary.

It's the need to get away that propels him, given that his muscles have generally given up and are a little more than numb. Before he knows it, he's crossed the road, and the ringing of raucous football games and clinking glass is now just a rather unwanted memory, for the moment.

The shadow of the alley greets him with it's cold but welcomed fingers, running it's smooth skin over his agitated nerves, and settling them, if a little.

Away from prying eyes.

So in a lack of motivation, he leans his whole body against the wall, head full of plump black hair hitting blotched brick, fingers pulling out the last cigarette in the pack and the same near empty lighter he's had for the past month.

His mind is sweating, his eyes clenched shut, refusing stubbornly to open.

It's been a very long day... Well, year. God, It's only February.

He plays with the cigarette in his hands, not able to muster the care to light it. It's not like he's in a rush to get back. He's in anything but.

But eventually the cry for nicotine overwhelms the need for divorce, and with a flash of flame it is lit and at his lips, poison filling his mind with as much joy as he'll at present ever manage.

One puff down and already the tension is eased at his shoulders, and as the toxic fumes massage his muscles, his breath slows, and by the third pull, it's almost leisurely.

It's only when the white is half burnt down and the grey ash has stained the foot of his shoes, that his eyes wander from behind his lids.

Only one side of the gap between then houses is lit. All he sees in the view of a pub that looks so innocent from outside, and a lamplight, as dim as Lestrade felt. But the light crawls in a little way to show just beyond him, uninvited. The lazily scattered puddles reflect the neglected walls, and a slice of a packet of discarded crisps can just be seen. Salt and Vinegar, by the looks of things.

I'm starving.

He looks away, and at the jerking of his neck he sees nothing but the pitchness of the long alley. He takes another pull of sweet cigarette, and savors the feel of it between his teeth.

But then the tendrils of tax-payed light reach the end of the man-made depression, and leave a silhouette there, of someone crouching, hugging their knees. Silent and still the shape is. But it's a little unnerving to a man who knows first-hand what potential intent that shape might have.

Another poor chap. He thinks. What is it? Homeless? Drink? Evasion?

But he can't answer it in his head, and his well-meaning mind calls out.

"You alright?" His voice his scratchy from the smoke, but the figure is startled, head jerking up as if it'd been awoken. It's head shoots round, the darkened features staring at him. "Need anything?"

The form doesn't answer, only continues to look at him in that illustrious way. Training tells Inspector Greg Lestrade not to get any closer, knives, needles, guns, and he's got half a mind to dial 999 on him. But something in the shadow seems to click, and suddenly it relaxes.

"I'm fine." The voice was not the old, worn out tunes of some overweight, mid-life druggie. It was male, yes, but young.

"You sure?" The voice this time doesn't answer, but looks back down. "Well if you do, I'm a police officer. I can..." Help? Buy you a drink? Get you arrested?

"Please officer, I'm fine." The voice is gravelly, obviously he was asleep, and obviously he's not too pleased about being woken.

But with his lack of attention, the cigarette is nearly down to the filter, and with a tap, all that he would've smoked is now grey, and falling to the floor.

He drops it, grinding it beneath his feet.

That training then takes over again, this time for a different reason.

"You can't sleep here, sunshine." He says, reaching the boy.

"Why not?" Now there's a 'matter of fact' quality to the tone, one that seems to suit him in a weird way that weird things suit complete strangers.

Lestrade crouches down, still far enough away that if there is a knife in the boys grip, he's got a decent chance to get away before it'll swipe him. He can't smell alcohol. and he's well dressed and clean enough to suggest he's got a home. The only alternative makes his brow crease.

He might just be relaxing. He reasons, foolishly even to himself.

"Why are you here?" The boy looks up again. "And what's your name?"

"You can't arrest me for sleeping."

"But I can move you on."

"But you're off duty, and your friends are waiting. They'll be wondering where you are."

"What the-" A spark of frustration brought out of surprise scratches along his features. But the calmness needed to deal with civilians returns soon enough. And with a deep breath he continues. "How'd you know?" Really, who goes to a pub on their own. Lucky guess. The boy gives a shrug.

"Same way I know your getting a divorce and hate your boss, who is presumably the person your wife slept with."

Lestrade's fingers find the tarmac.

His wife. His cheating, lying wife.

'Rage' was a murderous downplaying of what was brewing in his stomach and up into the back of his mouth, giving it a bitter, and heavily sour taste.

"How?" It's a simple question, but the boy takes an age in answering. His eyes off and seemingly unaware he was being asked a question by an man of the law who was about to get very, very wrathful.

"Gossip." It's a lie, a goddamn lie, but in a second, Lestrade can't find the effort. He accepts that maybe yes, Anderson isn't exactly trustworthy when it comes to office woes.

The prodded fury is still there, burning away at him like the very cigarette he had smoked, turning his chest into hot, grey ash ready to be thrown to the floor, but he can't bring himself to be angry at the boy, no, not the boy. At himself, plenty, and at his wife, well...

But the boy?

There is but for a second silence, and in said interval, the boy reaches for his pocket. Lestrade braces.

But it is not a knife that is produced, as expected, but a lighter. The boy hands it over with brief explanation. "Looks like you need one, and I'm trying to get rid of one."

Greg's not sure what to do, the gesture being somewhat unexpected, and so takes it, it falling into place beside his other lighter in his pocket.

So whatever this boy's back story, Greg gets that he's not going to be able to squeeze anything else out of him. He's not in Inspector mode at the moment, he's more in 'curl up or or punch something' mode. If he's really the new sprout of trouble in town, he'll turn up a another point in some other alley, when Lestrade's not thinking of his wife with another man, which makes for a rather distracting image, in the worst of ways. He only needs the lad's name.

'But how did he know?', still plagues his mind, but the clouds are resurfacing, and he needs another drink, pronto.

Nicotine refueled, and just enough confusion to care, he gets back up with ease, muscles that work perfectly holding him with perfection.

He dusts off his knees, and waits for a moment.

"Well it was nice to meet you..."

"You too, officer." Smart, he thinks, but suspicious.

Nothing about that meeting wasn't suspicious.

He turns away, looking dead ahead into the gates of hell.

He builds up the will to walk back through those intimidating wooden doors, and face those friends who are there for him, yes, but just don't seem to get it.

"Oh and officer-" He spins back round, the muster he had built pooling back round into the puddles under his feet. Defeat and fatigue is laced under his voice.

"Yes?" The boy sits up straighter against the wall.

"What's your name?" Lestrade's eyes take a second to widen, before his chest deflates at last.

"Lestrade." The boy takes no further acknowledgement of him, and his neck jolts back down between his knees, and in seconds it seems like he's fallen back asleep.

Lestrade takes his eyes back up to the pub, bright and terrible, and although without meaning to, his lips have a sly hint of a smile to them.

It's not 'till he's lying on the couch back at a house he somehow calls home, - and after another hour of pretending to enjoy himself with friends who pretend to 'know how it feels' - while he's snuggled warmish beneath a blanket, and head resting awkwardly on a rolled up shirt that it dawns on him.

He never told Anderson about the cheating.

He opened his eyes and the blackness of the living room filled them.

Tomorrow, he decided in the throws of confused unconsciousness, he was finding that boy.


	2. Meeting Two: Treat Yourself

_I'm up too early_, he promptly decides, tossing his latest coffee cup into the bin, an ungodly sigh pushing past his lips.

The office is as quiet as it ever is at half five on a Saturday, the only discernible noise other than the occasional clicking of the central heating, is made in his office and by his hands as he shifts through the mound of papers and files splayed out on the desk before him.

No one is around him, no one to interrupt or annoy, but no one to answer the phone that's been glowing green for a good few minutes now.

_Crime doesn't wait, but the officers do._

But his task, even though he's already here, is not the flashing phone, but this.

That one report impatiently waiting on the far side of his desk, staring at him with hollow eyes, reminding him of that sugar-coated threat not given too long ago.

He was looking for that evidence file that no, he hadn't lost, simply misplaced, and that if he didn't have, he could not properly reference in that aforementioned report. His boss, that absolute twat of a man, had promised that if he didn't hand in the finest report of his career, disciplinary actions would be taken.

With his work record the past few months, he couldn't afford that. So here he was, three and a half hours before his grind officially begins, fueled on coffee beans and cafeteria fries alone, searching through every bit of paper he's ever filed, looking for that damned document.

He shouldn't have gone out last night, he wants to hiss through clamped teeth. But he needed the break. _Oh, did I need it._

And that boy, that boy who couldn't be less important, is still working his way into day's hectic to-do-list. The only issue being that he could be anywhere in London, and time permitting, if he were to go hunting, it could take a while. Well, I'm in no rush to get home.

It strikes him every so often that he's overacting just a tiny bit, but this boy stank of trouble. If he is about to cause disruption, which he might, then it's just cautionary measures. He's a cop, he's got a gut instinct big enough and brave enough to punch out an old lady.

His gut's telling him there's something wrong with this boy.

A boy who he doesn't even know the name of. _I should've asked._

But then he starts leafing through papers again, having drifted off into the very confused confines of his mind.

But he can't keep up pretending to care about this report.

His back slams into his chair and it groans beneath him.

He rubs away the tiredness in his eyes, a stretching yawn warming the palm of his hand.

He could go now. Boss is just being pedantic, spiteful, an unprofessional prick. Boss is just trying to keep him busy, keep him locked under key and chain.

_Sleeping with my wife already twisted my life into my own personalized hell, no need to pour salt all over it._

But he glances up at the report again.

_I'll go at lunch_, he concludes.

His 15 minutes break at around eleven is the most blessed thing on this green Earth.

But stood outside, with rain clouds threatening their fun, when he reaches for the lighter, barely used, from his pocket he remembers.

_Okay, so he smokes, but what kid doesn't these days?_

Besides, who's he to criticize that?

His plays with his foot on the grey tarmac, and lights his cigarette, the flash of flame relaxing.

He looks down at the wispy trail of smoke, and tastes it on his tongue. It's slightly bitter under the overhanging gloom, and it's not nearly as nice now as it usually is.

He knew about my wife. Repeated again in his mind. Only five people ought to know about that, some insular teen was not one of them. Certainly not.

He supposed him being a detective was easy to guess. _Probably seen me in uniform._

_But my wife?_

He gets back to work when the stub is squashed between his shoe and the tarmac, crooked and abandoned to get wet in the promised rain.

And with a kind of hateful spite from up high, he quickly found the file in with a Mr A. Samson-Smith's. A place it shouldn't be. A place he'd looked three times before.

Two hours and a half turn later, he sits alone in his office, coffee cold, fingers swollen with typing, humming quietly to the radio far off in the other room. A loud song, rock, or something similar, and with lyrics he can't make out without straining his protestant ears.

_Awful song._

And every now and again, boss comes in to pester and hassle, so innocently hurrying his work, such a sly tint to his words.

Five pages down, only three to go. Right now, three was seemingly the largest number in the entire universe, and he was growing to dislike it.

But too late in the day for his liking, the clock hung at an odd angle on the wall strikes one, and his allocated time for tea and biscuits has come. He stops his work with distinct glee, and snaps his cramping knuckles, switching off his brain from previous searches, to current ones.

He stands from the chair, dented and squeaky, with muscles that had gone numb under his weight adoring him for the relief.

Radio in his belt, he hauls his tattered jacket over his shoulders, bullying his collar into shape and pushing back the lock of hair tickling his forehead.

_If they need me they'll call, if not, I'm just out of that bastard's way. _

He leaves the building quickly and unnoticed, lost in the mix of WPC's and fresh, pink iced baking.

No one cares about the small fry when there's donuts 'round.

And once outside, and enjoying the fresh air in his lungs, he jogs a little way down the road, the exercise feeling good to his re-booting system.

The afternoon sun is nice on his skin, and even the dull tones of the road look a little less monotone.

He risks the time for a pit stop at the shop, paying the extortionate London price for a sandwich, in the same London shop he always does.

So on his brisk walk down the streets in the vague direction of the pub, but for once not intending to enter, he bites into his ploughman's. He does have a little trouble nibbling off a bit of cucumber, and ends up taking it all, along with a glob of mayonnaise, which so unfortunately doesn't make it, and spreads in an ugly stroke down his tie. He doesn't have time to mourn.

He glances at his watch. It's 54 minutes till doom. His eyes search in the stream of strangers on his path. He knows London almost like the back of his hand, and knows where the boy's apparent type hang out, but this is just as difficult as expected.

_Why does it have to be Saturday?_

Every dark or dingy alley he passes he risks a look, knowing he wont be there, but just in case.

If he was in one alley, you can bet he'll be in another. That kind of thing isn't a one off.

_Does he not have a home? Is he running? What, an orphan?_

All kinds of horrid ideas pass between his eyes. Having seen some pretty horrid stuff in the city the last few years he knew what could be the case, but he also knew what he hoped would be the case.

Soon, it's 34 minutes in before he's stood between the infamous alley of last night, in the shadow, gazing down at the empty end, and realizing the true extent of how foolish of an idea this was. But on stepping back out into the light, the somewhat breathless figure bounding towards him looks familiar.

_Oh well that's just not fair-_

He steadies the figure that has crashed into his chest, spiting out a mouth full of curled locks that flew into his unsuspecting face.

It's not an occurrence you can ever be prepared for.

"Ah, detective Lestrade, You took longer than I anticipated. I believe your help is required." The boy, very much similar to how he looked last night was in front of him. This is either luck, or he's following me.

"What-".

And before he knows it, he's being dragged along by the sleeve at quite a pace, stairs nearly tripping him up, people cursing at them as they bounded past.

One boy in the whole of London, twice, in the same place.

All the luck that he's missing in all other areas of existence have come together here in one big messy globule.

And now he's found the boy, whilst running around and almost into grannies, past grey and grayer buildings, he's not sure it was as grand as he'd imagined.

"Where are we going? The boy hears it in the rush, Lestrade knows he does, the boy's just ignoring him. "Hey!" Lestrade pulls out of the grip, and is left at the top of a grungy stair case while the boy only turns around half way down, having only then realized he was running alone.

"No one seems to believe me." There's no explanation, and there doesn't seem to be one needed, going by the look on the boy's face.

Upright this 'boy' is not so much of a boy. Even though lower down on the steps and slouched, he can see that. He's as tall himself, and thin. A little too thin, but not dangerously Lestrade reckons. _Quick metabolism..._

"Excuse me?" Lestrade's hands find his hips, in a way that doesn't suit him, but that feels right in this situation, whatever it is.

Truth being, he never expected to find this boy, but in a way he didn't. The boy found him.

_Glad I made an impression._

"There's been a crime." Lestrade shifts his weight onto the other foot. The boy seems so certain, so sure. Lestrade's not.

"What kind?"

"A serious one." Lestrade bites his cheek. _And what, pray tell, is wrong with 999?_

But the boy isn't worried, excited definitely, but not worried. It can't be too serious. Or the boy's a little odder than previously thought, and needs a doctor more than a policeman.

"Go on then," Lestrade breathes. "Show me where it is."

He runs behind the boy now, refusing to be dragged, and is swiftly taken to a place he's been a thousand times. A thousand times, and not anytime for a good reason.

The boy stands before a spot, stoic and solid, eyes transfixed down onto a discarded can, and is silent

"Well?" Said Lestrade, glancing again at his watch. The boy seems tired, or annoyed, or uncaring, or all three.

"See?" Lestrade swallows, looking at a few murals etched into the mismatched walls.

"Not really."

"The crime?"

"What crime? Graffiti? Not exactly hard to tell, but we can't catch these guys." He looks to an example ahead of them, some kid's signature with the bold colour choices of blues, yellows and pinks. "Besides, its creative, let 'em do it."

"Not the graffiti. Look." And Lestrade scans the area again. A bit of litter, a lot of wall art, and the rather unpleasant and pungent smell of ammonia.

"I can't see-" And the way the boy replies is frankly rude.

"Someone stole this paint bag." Lestrade's head rips round for a final sweep. He couldn't have missed a paint bag, could he? No, there's nothing there.

"What paint bag?"

"Exactly." Lestrade laughs a chaste laugh.

"Look, stop being such a smart ass and explain."

"That can is part of a set, an expensive set, I'd say fifty pounds, and hardly used. They wouldn't have left it. Only if they had to go and dropped it by accident would they have. Well. they wouldn't have had to run from the community officers as you said, you don't bother here, but if you were stealing the bag from a turned back, then you'd run, and let the odd one slip."

"That's quite a stretch."

"Evidence is evidence."

"This isn't evidence, it's guesswork."

"It's using the scene to deduce the events." Lestrade straightens his striped blue tie, running a rough tongue along his teeth.

"What's your name?" The boy wraps his fingers into a fist at his side, and with a tick of his lips, replies.

"Sherlock." Lestrade nods slowly.

"Got a last name?"

"Of course."

"Care to share?" But Sherlock simply gets back to his work, and only adds to the vague annoyance brewing at Lestrade's temples. "Well then,Sherlock, how old are you?" And Lestrade allows a moment to step back at the almost spat, and unexpected response.

"Seventeen."

_Well, you don't look it._

"And you spend your time doing..." He looks around at the underground, look of distaste plastered in his eyes, walls covered mercilessly with graffiti. "This?"

"Well, you're not doing it."

"Stolen spray cans, Sherlock. Stolen spray cans. Shouldn't you be studying?"

"Shouldn't you be filing that report? No, instead you go out looking for me."

"Okay, how do you do that? I know Anderson didn't tell you anything."

"What if I contest in court?"

"What-" Lestrade slumps. There's nothing here but shoe prints that anyone can own, and a 30p can of paint. "I'm sorry."

"Okay." And Sherlock stands, fingers pushed deep into his pockets, that previous little spark of something close to emotion vanished. "Goodbye."

"Hey, no wait!" Lestrade calls out, eyes only briefly daring a look at the watch around his wrist. "Where do you live?"

"In a house." With a roll of his eyes he responds.

"Do you need a lift?" He asks the question like a good Samaritan, patting his lumped pockets that held car keys within.

"You have a job to get back to or you're fired." His hand pauses over those keys.

"Okay," He laughs without humour. "How do you do it?" The reply is spate over a receding shoulder.

"Oh, you're a policeman. One day I'll find a clever one."

He leaves, or rather is left by Sherlock's company sure he's going cuckoo.

And he wanted to be irritated, he honestly did, but there's a part of his brain that's simply insisting that he was amused.

The boy was definitely an oddity, and he was sure there was something off. This meeting neither cooled the questions in his mind, nor encouraged them. He was left feeling strange.

He looks down, still stood underneath paintings, at the wedding ring on his finger. The way the skin bulges out around it only slightly. It'd been there five years, but by the end of this one, it'll just be a slight dent, and after the next, an empty and slightly hairy memory.

_A bitter one_, he reminds himself. _She cheated on you_, he chants.

But as he looks out into the darkening sky as those rain clouds let loose, he frowns.

_But I think I love her._

Avoiding the directing his head was dragging him, he heads back to his office, having to run to make it in time.

But as he steps back into the building, shaking himself off like an obedient retriever, he hangs his coat onto the rack, and is met by a voice he really doesn't want to hear, nor ever will.

"Lestrade! Report!" And the almost growl that passes his lips makes him wonder why the hell that Sherlock kid made him waste the one hour he had without boss.

He trudges back into his office, shoulders slumping under the door arch. It's no longer as quiet as it was at half five. Crime doesn't seem to know it's a Saturday.

He longs for the peace of pre-dawn.

"On the hour, boss." He calls back in response. Why even bother doing the report? Lestrade stretches his neck muscles, cramped and awkward from last nights sleeping. He answers his own question as he sits down in his chair, knees under the desk. Because even though the man behind the title makes his blood pressure a lot above unhealthy. He still needs to eat, and so for that he needs a job. What an he do other that police work? Besides, he doesn't want to do anything else. He quite likes knowing he can help people.

_It's just an awful shame I'm not very good at it._

For this job, he needs to act like he doesn't want to strangle that brain dead piece of-

All he needs to do is correct those typos, and re-size the font to add an extra page.

He's been slacking recently, he knows it, he knows it well. But he has good reason. It's hard to sort out other peoples lives when you can't even sort out your own. Shaking hands aren't the best at drawing straight lines.

The file prints, and the churning of ink cartridges and stuck paper makes his head throb, and his calloused fingers tap louder upon the desk.

Home at half five, food at seven, bed at twelve.

Everything happens as it has happened every other day this year. The routine of microwaved food, and the nightly pick me up. And for once, as a treat, for this night only, he has two rounds of bad whiskey, not one.

Through the days, he has come to the conclusion that pretending his wife isn't there at all is easier than pretending she is.

His bed is his comfort, the scratchy blanket his loving arms. The stench of Fabric cleaner and past split liqueurs the familiar perfume.

The rolled up shirt beneath his head twists as his head lulls into sleep.

But the robbery is, as expected, stubbornly refusing to settle for business hours. So at the call of his house radio, four hours before dawn, for the second time running, he was leaving his house. Cold, and heavily caffeinated.

Too tired to drive, the taxi driver insisted on playing the damn radio. His head on the window, he watched London blur by.

The car journey is over in a blink, Lestrade not yet woken from his sleep, reluctant to acknowledge he had to wake up.

But as he looked forward into the flashing scene, blue and red and blacks splattered like cheap paint, he had an odd mix of a frown and intrigue played on his features.

The taxi door slams shut behind him.

Sherlock Holmes was standing by the police tape, interest piqued and restless.

"Not you again?" He asks inwardly, a little angrier than he meant to but that fatigue insisted. He struts up to the kid, avoiding the boss' gaze as he does so. "How'd you even know to be here?" Sherlock says it with such ease as if he doesn't even know it's wrong.

"I borrowed your radio." And Lestrade takes him to one side, head searching guiltily around them.

Thinking about it, he doesn't recollect taking his radio off his belt, that sly sod.

"You can't do that, give it back." He holds out a hand, one still placed on the boy's shoulders. Sherlock shrugs out of the grip.

"But I need it." That seems in the boy's eyes to be reason enough to steal, but Lestrade takes it back with a snatch, and Sherlock's soon seemingly over it.

"Where are your parents?" Sherlock's eyes seem unimpressed.

"There's a crime scene and you're asking about my parents?" Greg has to be hard. The boy isn't giving as strongly as he himself may push.

"Where are they?"

"America." He isn't expecting to get any kind of reply, but he doesn't like the one he does.

"And you're alone?" He shakes his head at himself. "No." Parents can't be that foolish. Hopefully. "- So I guess you've got older siblings?" Sherlock eyes dart over over Lestrade's shoulder, dead into the crime scene.

"As it wasn't a murder, and nothing of great value was taken, do you think I could get a look inside?" Lestrade takes a deep and needed breath.

"I can't" Sherlock smirks.

"Can't or won't?"

"Don't do that."And for a moment Sherlock seems to scrutinize him, smirk replaced by grimace, taking in every flicker on his face, every ripple in his unironed, wrongly buttoned shirt.

Sherlock turns on his heels with the air of a scolded prince, and leaves.

"Goodbye?" Lestrade calls after him with a click of his tongue, insulted and cold.

Sherlock's stride doesn't falter.

That's the second time he's been ditched today. He's starting to feel a pattern emerging out of the sludge.

And goddammit, this time he feels bad.

For what? _Not_ breaking the law?

The robbery, when he returns to it, is a quick one. Nothing of any value taken, and the kid was caught a few blocks down. Back up officers took him in, and so one hour later, Lestrade signed off.

The key fit in his front door perfectly, and turned with ease.

Walking into his 'home' never felt so sweet. Even as dawn drifted in, and the wasted night whistled it's farewells, he reveled his return. The smell of last night's pre-prepared dinner still lingering in the air, and his morning's coffee mixing in, he slumped down heavily onto the bedded sofa, rubbing vigorously at his dried up eyes.

His neck rolls on it's hinges, and he's glad he's got today off. Never has a Sunday been so bitterly succulent, but as he looks to the bedroom door that's so firmly shut, he clicks his stiffened fingers. His eyes stay there as long as they felt fit, mind wandering off long before, not liking the view enough to stay for the finale.

It's only at the ringing of his telephone that he's disrupted, and his frown doesn't disappear as he answers.

"Hello?" His voice feels impossibly loud in the lightening room.

"Hello." Says the unfamiliar voice at the other end. "Is this Mr Lestrade?" The woman sounds sweet enough, but soured as it dawns on him that he's got off the sofa for an advertising pitch.

"I'm not interested in whatever you're selling-" The phone connection is cut before he can even finish.

Good, he thinks. _Maybe this time they'll get the message._


End file.
